One Cigarette
by Navy Babe
Summary: A year after Sherlock Holmes commits suicide, people start thinking that Molly Hooper has picked up a smoking habit. But as usual, people see but do not observe.


Notes: This was inspired after listening to Tom Hiddleston reading the poem "One Cigarette" by Edwin Morgan - it's so beautiful and gave me lots of Sherlolly feels. :) Hope that you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Nothing your recognize belongs to me. The title is from the poem of the same name by Edwin Morgan.

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A year after Sherlock Holmes commits suicide, people start thinking that Molly Hooper has picked up a smoking habit. It's not an insane leap of logic to make actually. Sometimes people notice that she smells of smoke. She has an ashtray in her flat, though she's always very quick to empty it so it always seems clean (and actually she always takes the ashes and more importantly the butts into work to be incinerated which in and of itself should be a clue that she's not the one smoking). Most damning, she keeps a pack in her drawer in her kitchen at all times. When she runs out, she goes to buy a new one.

But anyone who actually looked (and _he_ would say that they all see but do not observe) would see that her fingers aren't stained. She never takes smoke breaks while at work. She doesn't even carry a lighter. Someone who actually knew Molly Hooper would know that she's never smoked a full cigarette in her life.

Someone who actually knew Molly Hooper would know that she's addicted to something much more dangerous than cigarettes. Someone who actually knew Molly Hooper would know that instead, she is addicted to Sherlock Holmes.

Funnily enough, apparently the only person who actually knows Molly Hooper turns out to be Sherlock Holmes.

It hadn't started out romantic. He'd stayed with her for a week after jumping off the St. Bart's roof, recuperating from his injuries. After that he'd left for five months without a word. And then one night, Molly came home and Sherlock was leaning out her window, finishing off his cigarette, flicking the ashes down onto the street below. She'd admonished him for picking up the cigarettes again – he'd been doing so well – but before she could even finish her little indignant speech, he had pulled her close and kissed her.

Her father had always warned her off of smoking because he said that boys wouldn't want to kiss her if she tasted like an ashtray. But kissing Sherlock definitely was not like kissing an ashtray.

He was warm and his lips were soft and yes, he might have tasted a bit like the cigarette he was smoking, but he also tasted like the spearmint gum he had been chewing before and something that was just…distinctly Sherlock. He tasted good. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she was doing a bit of a happy dance because she knew that this meant they were sexually compatible.

She thought about sharing this factoid with him, but refrained.

He had pulled away from her and smiled, a true smile, one without malice or falsehood, and she'd tugged him close again. He tossed the cigarette out the window and into the street below.

He'd left the next morning with just a simple note left behind, but somehow, Molly knew he'd be back. She went out and bought a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray later that day. She knows that he shouldn't be smoking in her flat, but it's dangerous to have him leaning out the window and a part of her likes having his smoke seeping into the room. He's not around enough for it to actually be permanent, but the scent sticks around for a few days after he leaves.

He shows up regularly, more often now that the web is collapsing. He's cut the right strings and everything is starting to fall apart and he whispers to her as they lay in bed that he's almost done, that he can almost come home. If she was a more selfish woman, she'd be sad that their time completely alone was coming to an end.

But she sees the pain in his eyes whenever she talks about their friends. She feels just how tightly he holds her, as if she is the only thing keeping him anchored to this world. And she knows that no matter how much she treasures this time alone with him, she'd rather see him happy than keep him all to herself.

One night, after making love, they sit in her bed and he lights up a cigarette. She plucks it from his fingers after he's taken a few drags and pulls the smoke into her lungs.

She immediately starts coughing.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes the cigarette back. "It's a filthy habit, Molly. I'm planning on going back to patches when I return."

She smiles and curls up next to him, his warmth a comfort to her. It's always "when I return" now instead of "if I return." Every time he comes to her, he seems a little more like himself. But he still clings to her during the night. He still looks at her as if she is his entire world while they are making love and she has started to let herself believe that maybe…just maybe, this won't stop when he comes back to life.

He leaves an hour later, saying that he has a meeting with Mycroft, and the butt of his cigarette is left smoldering in the ashtray. She breathes it in and it tastes like Sherlock's lips on hers before he leaves.


End file.
